Oh, Lord, I can forgive what’s done to me by them,
But better, a wild hawk, I would tear a lamb,
Or, a snake — sting the sleeping in the grasses,
Than to be man, and see what people masses
Do on the earth, and through the noxious shame
To not dare up my eyes to heavens’ pure flame.
О Боже, за себя я все могу простить,
Но лучше б ястребом ягненка мне когтить
Или змеей уснувших жалить в поле,
Чем человеком быть и видеть поневоле,
Что люди делают, и сквозь тлетворный срам
Не сметь поднять глаза к высоким небесам.
«Smiling nervously but brightly, / conscious of her youth and fame, / she set the way that she was asked to / indifferently — or playing games. Under heaven's dome's eternal childhood / April nineteen hundred twelve / has promised her in Ospedaletti / only prosperity and s...»
«Marina, how I love to know that / like everyone else, like me – / who cannot speak now through my frozen throat / because to speak of it is like swallowing ice – / to know that you, a creature of light! of snow! / were like the rest of us, given lessons in music. / And there was a wa...»
«Now on three sides the darkness grows deeper / with the coming of dawn, and still my / hand has no courage to reach through the solid / air to the white paper on the table. For reason can not honestly resist my / sense of limitation! Now I cannot / let my hand wrote any of those careless ...»
«Winter, to me your gestures are / cold and careful: yes, in / winter there is something / gentle as medicine, or why else would sickness / put out trusting hands / into that season, from its own / torture and darkness? Weave your magic then / my love, let the kiss / of one curl of ...»